


Savour

by talekayler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talekayler/pseuds/talekayler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Even after all these years, you don’t know how he’s managed it, to turn everything you have done or been forced into or witnessed into something that should be cherished. Not for the memories, but for where it got you in the end.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Savour

**Author's Note:**

> All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. All mistakes are mine.

You know what awaits you when you get in from work. You know, that without a doubt, he’ll be there, reading or finishing up paperwork. There will be the tantalizing scent of supper clinging around him and hanging in the air and making you feel more than the hunger for food, something far more primal.

Despite his hectic schedule, he always manages to be home before you, and when he isn’t, it worries you sick. You can’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario, one after another as they crowd in your head, and you dread that the next moment to go by is when the Floo will flare and it will be St Mungo’s or a Weasley with bad news. When he tells you that he’ll be home late, you attempt to make supper for him, even though the results often go awry, are burnt or hold too much salt. He laughs sometimes, and then somehow manages to turn your mistakes into something superb. He’s always been able to do that.

Even after all these years, you don’t know how he’s managed it, to turn everything you have done or been forced into or witnessed into something that should be cherished. Not for the memories, but for where it got you in the end. Because if you had not fallen into the Dark Lord’s trap, chances are you wouldn’t be here, pressing up behind him as he stands at the counter. Chances are that you wouldn’t have been an outcast in society, and wouldn’t have had marriage arrangement after marriage arrangement fall through. You would have found a wife and gotten the child, and the relationship between you and him would be nothing more than a nod as you send your respective kids off for school. Instead, it was him that helped repair burnt bridges, him who got you back on your feet. That, you know, is worth more than you can repay with even thirty life debts.

“If you keep doing that,” he says, his voice a little broken as you nuzzle into his neck, play with that strand of hair that sticks out. Whatever he was about to say next comes out in a garbled mess when you breathe lightly into his ear, nibble gently on the lobe. You feel the faint shiver that possesses him, and smirking, you step back, giving him the room he needs to finish whatever it was you had interrupted him from doing.

He turns to face you, his cheeks flushed and lips parted. There’s a smear of red sauce on his cheekbone, and you want nothing more than to lick it off for him. He doesn’t object when you lean forward, his eyes falling halfway shut and you hear him swallow.

The flavour of the sauce explodes on your tongue, tart and sweet and somehow creamy. Underneath it, you can faintly taste him, a lingering trace of sweat from tracking whatever poor soul captured the attention of the Auror department. He hasn’t showered yet, hasn’t even changed out of his uniform, really, just rolled up the sleeves, undone a few buttons and thrown an apron over top. It’s a gaudy one Granger had bought for him, one with ‘ _Kiss the Cook_ ’ stamped across the front. If you have your way – and you know you will, from the look he shoots you, the mischievousness that sparks in his eyes – you’ll do a lot more than just _kiss_ the cook.

He coughs to clear his throat and hurriedly checks the cooker, where the smell of rosemary and lemon is making your mouth water. You wave your wand and arrange plates out on the table, retrieve a bottle of white wine from the cellar and pour a healthy measure into two glasses.

The table is small when you sit at it, loaded with food, and you crowd together. It wasn’t this small when you had first moved in, and only is because of the spells you cast on it under your breath every now and then to shrink it just that little bit more. You’re surprised that he hasn’t noticed yet, or maybe he just hasn’t said anything about it. He’s a lot sneakier than you had originally thought, all those years ago when you had first met, which only makes you appreciate him all the more.

Supper is usually a quick affair when it is just the two of you. It’s not any wonder when you go out of your way to make obscene noises as you eat, a hand on his thigh as you inhale the aroma of herbs and spices and allow the food to seemingly melt on your tongue. He’s just as bad as he licks sauce from his lips, then swirls a little with his fingers and brings them up for you to lick.

This is what supper usually dissolves into, where the food isn’t just eaten on plates and served with forks or spoons. It’s you feeding him with your fingers, sauce being smeared across your lips or getting into your hair. It adds a whole other dimension, another experience, and makes everything taste better when it’s shared this way.

And even though he never fails to make dessert, usually that tart he favours or the éclairs you do, you hardly ever get to it, at least not until much later, when the candles have turned to stubs and the food has cooled. Your dessert is of another variety, and much more satisfying.

You’ll have the éclairs later, when you’re curled up in bed together and the sun hasn’t yet risen properly over the rooftops. And when the sun balances on the horizon, is making the mist that hangs in the air sparkle, the éclairs will be long gone, eaten between you.

 _fin_


End file.
